


teacups and time (and the rules of disorder)

by toddandersons



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, First Kiss, Groundhog Day, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder as Flirtation, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25156573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toddandersons/pseuds/toddandersons
Summary: Will is stuck reliving the day that he and Hannibal killed the Great Red Dragon. He has to come to terms with certain feelings towards Hannibal--and towards himself.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 326





	teacups and time (and the rules of disorder)

Will and Hannibal were falling through the air. They were one. Hannibal’s hands clenched tightly in Will’s shirt. Will clutching to Hannibal. Trying to be as close to the other as they could as they entered this final phase of their lives together. Intertwined. Bound together by the strings of fate. 

The air whipped them as they plummeted down towards the rapidly-approaching sea, but Will hardly felt it. He could only feel Hannibal. Hannibal’s strong arms around him. Hannibal’s blood-soaked shirt flattened against his own. 

And as their brief downwards journey met its fatal end, there was only one name on Will’s mind. 

***

Will jerked forward, gasping for air. When he found his movement restricted by a firm hold around his chest, he clawed at it, desperately trying to escape, survive, breathe-- 

“Will? _Will._ ”

An anxious voice from his left. Will’s frantic eyes darted around his surroundings, finally landing on the source of the concern. Hannibal. Dressed in the same white prison uniform he was wearing earlier that day. In the driver’s seat of a car. A car which Will was also seated in. 

Will’s brow furrowed in confusion. None of this made any sense. He was supposed to be dead. _They_ were supposed to be dead. He had pulled them both down into the sea. Right after Dolarhyde--

Will reached up to his cheek, feeling for the gash from Francis’s knife. No cut. Just stubble. And his right shoulder didn’t ache, either. A quick glance down at himself only served to provide further confusion. There was no blood anywhere on him. And he was wearing the same black jacket and slacks he had been wearing earlier, before he had changed at the house. Before they had…

“Will? Is everything alright?” 

Will became aware that the car was no longer moving. Hannibal had pulled over to the side of the road. It was dark outside, and Will couldn’t distinguish any recognizable surroundings.

He met Hannibal’s gaze, looking at him as if he was seeing him for the very first time. After a quick once-over, it was apparent that Hannibal wasn’t injured, either. He looked just as he always looked. Well, except that he was in a prison uniform, instead of an elegant suit. And he was looking at Will with an expectant expression, waiting for an explanation for what probably seemed to him to be very odd behavior.

Once Hannibal’s question registered in his brain, Will laughed. “Alright” would not be the word he would use to describe his current state of being. But what even was his current state of being?

He was beginning to feel a creeping sense of déja vu. In more ways than one. He felt as though he had been here, in this stolen police car with Hannibal, once before. But memories of flashing lights and disfigured clocks also swirled in his mind.

Almost instinctively, Will glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 12:02. _My name is Will Graham. It’s 12:02 AM. I am in_ …. where was he, exactly? Or an even better question. _When_ was he?

He was acutely aware that Hannibal was still watching him, waiting for an explanation.

“Must’ve dozed off. Just a bad dream,” he murmured, trying for a quick, placating smile. It mustn’t have been entirely convincing, for Hannibal hesitated for a moment longer before nodding and pulling the car back onto the road. 

Once they were moving again, Will turned to look out the car window and tried to make sense of his scattered thoughts. He knew that the previous day hadn’t been a dream. Even in his most vivid dreams, he didn’t experience such drawn-out, detailed chains of events as he had yesterday. The drive to the house, the day spent with Hannibal, the night spent with Dolarhyde… there was no way that all of that could have been a dream. Right?

Will tried to remember what he had said and done the first time he’d lived through this. Despite his best efforts not to, he had fallen asleep for a few hours on the long drive from the site of the crash to Hannibal’s house by the sea. Once he and Hannibal had arrived at the house, they had changed into more favorable clothes and Hannibal had gone to rest for a few hours while Will promised to keep watch for Francis. They had prepared to have a drink. And that’s when all hell had broken loose.

He debated over whether he should try to get some rest again. After all, he did have a long day ahead of him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened after Hannibal had poured them the wine. He couldn’t stop thinking about how _good_ it had all felt. To finally let go. To give in to what he was becoming. And to experience all of that with Hannibal… it was the most intimate experience he’d ever shared with another person. 

But now, after the adrenaline had worn off and he’d thought about how savagely they had ripped Francis apart, he felt an uncomfortable itch in his conscience. He had really let himself go. He was becoming, but what if he didn’t like what he was becoming? What would that teacher at the FBI who wasn’t fond of eye contact think of him now?

Will shook his head in an effort to rid himself of some of the shame and tried to focus on what was happening to him. If he was truly reliving the same day, was he supposed to repeat the same actions he’d already taken? Probably not. He’d seen Groundhog Day, after all. If what had happened wasn’t a dream (and he was practically certain that it wasn’t), then he must be reliving this day for some reason. He nearly laughed again when he tried to imagine himself stuck in Bill Murray’s place. Was Hannibal to be the Rita to his Phil? Was he doomed to spend eternity trying to win the heart of a serial killer and become a better person in the process?

Will barely repressed a snicker at the thought. He was pretty convinced that the universe would’ve had to have a better reason to force him to relive this day than for the sake of good character development. Whatever that even meant.

And, according to Bedelia, he already had Hannibal’s heart. He had tried not to think of that conversation too often. But he would be lying to himself if he said that he hadn’t been pondering her question quite frequently since that fateful appointment. _Did_ he ache for him?

Will pondered the predicament he found himself in, but after riding many different trains of thought and failing to reach any satisfactory destinations, he eventually succumbed to the exhaustion that had been starting to tug on his eyelids. When he awoke, it was light outside, and the seaside house was in sight.

Hannibal smiled at him. “Good morning, Will. I’m glad to see you have rejoined the land of the living.”

Will grunted in response. He wasn’t even entirely sure he _was_ in the land of the living anymore. But he wasn’t ready to start following that line of thinking yet.

Hannibal exited the car and Will followed suit. Would Hannibal walk to the edge of the yard again, as he had done the previous day?

Apparently so. Will followed him, glancing down at the sea. His stomach turned unpleasantly. The last time he had looked into those swirling waters, he had been a lot closer to them.

“The bluff is eroding,” Hannibal said. Right on cue. “There was more land when I was here with Abigail. More still when I was here with Miriam Lass.” 

Will still felt a pang at the sound of Abigail’s name coming from Hannibal’s mouth, even upon hearing it for the second time. He glanced towards Hannibal.

“Now you’re here with me.”

“And the bluff is still eroding. You and I are suspended over the roiling Atlantic. Soon all of this will be lost to the sea.”

Will frowned at that last comment. He didn’t consciously remember Hannibal saying that the first time, but he must have. As Hannibal walked back towards the house, Will felt tendrils of anger creep up his spine. He had truly thought that _he_ had come up with the idea to plunge them both into the sea, all on his own. But the way that Hannibal had described their position above the sea… had he planted the idea in Will’s mind? Will had truly thought he was in control of his actions that night. And no matter how many times Hannibal had proven that he was always in control, the hope of independence had always grown back in his mind.

Will followed Hannibal into the house and glanced around. His gaze caught on the window facing the patio. It was whole again, unshattered by any bullets. And the floor was clean, unstained with the mix of red wine and Hannibal’s blood. 

“It has been a long drive, Will. Considering that this Dragon prefers to perform his changes under the cover of the darkness, I will take these next few hours of sunlight to rest.”

Will nodded absentmindedly, still focused on the kitchen floor, then set off towards the guest room which had served as his room yesterday. He tossed his jacket onto the bed and was making his way towards the bathroom when he caught Hannibal’s curious gaze.

“That was the very room I had been intending for your use. Perhaps you and I are more connected than we thought, Will,” Hannibal said, smiling. It was only then that Will realized that Hannibal hadn’t shown him the layout of the house yet. Not during this particular day. He was going to have to be more careful if he didn’t want to raise suspicions.

Once Hannibal had showered and retired to his bedroom, Will took the opportunity to explore the house. Yesterday, he had spent most of this time considering what to do. He had considered calling Molly or answering one of Jack’s many calls, but had ultimately decided against talking to anyone. Then he had spent a great deal of time considering what to do about Hannibal. He hadn’t made up his mind until they were on the edge of the cliff. Well, more accurately, he still hadn’t made up his mind.

He didn’t want to think about anything anymore. But earlier, Hannibal had mentioned that he’d been here with Abigail. Will wondered if there was anything left of her here to show for that.

After glancing in various rooms, he finally stumbled across one that looked as though it had been recently occupied. The bed was less tidily made up than the pristinely pressed beds of the other rooms, and there was a splatter of photographs pinned to a wall. Will took a deep breath, then stepped over the threshold.

There weren’t many signs to indicate that Abigail had lived here. Since Hannibal must have been preparing her to leave with him and Will, she had cleaned out much of the room’s contents. But there were still small impressions of her. A plaid pink and purple scarf peeked out from under the bed. Will picked it up and placed it on the desk that was pushed against one of the walls. Above the desk were a few pictures held in place with thumbtacks. Most he recognized from the fridge at the Hobbs’ house. But one more recent photograph caught his eye, and his stomach sank. It was a picture of him and Abigail. And Hannibal. Taken at the hospital where Abigail had briefly stayed. Freddie must have taken it. 

Will gently removed the photograph from the wall. They all looked much younger. Will was sitting with Abigail. Abigail was smiling at him. Hannibal was standing over them, watching her.

All of a sudden it was too much. The photograph crinkled in Will’s tightening fist, but he hardly noticed. Hannibal had killed Abigail. Right in front of him. Hannibal had killed Beverly. Hannibal had tried to kill Molly and Walter.

Hannibal had killed Abigail.

And Will had forgiven him? How had he forgiven him? Why had he forgiven him? Why was Hannibal still alive right now?

With Abigail’s scarf in one hand and his gun in the other, Will set off down the hallway with a purposeful stride and threw open the door to Hannibal’s room. Hannibal sat up quickly in the bed, wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants, regarding him with a curious look. Will threw Abigail’s scarf down onto the bed. Hannibal looked at it, realized what it was, and looked back up at Will. His eyes moved to the gun in Will’s hand.

“Do you intend to kill me, Will? I thought that I was to be the bait for the Great Red Dragon,” Hannibal said, slowly rising from the bed. Will raised the gun slowly until it was pointing at his chest.

“Oh, please. You know that he’s here already, watching us. I don’t need you anymore,” Will replied bitterly.

Hannibal’s eyes darkened. “But you do need me, Will. We need each other. Do you remember what you said to me in Florence? Neither of us could survive separation.” 

Will switched off the safety. Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

“Do you feel differently now, Will? By killing me, do you believe you would also be amputating the parts of yourself that strike both fear and awe in your heart?” Hannibal glanced at the gun with distaste before once again meeting Will’s eyes. “Once you began cutting, you would quickly find that you would be unable to stop. One cannot cut out that which inhabits one’s every cell.”

Will scoffed and readjusted his grip on the gun. He was standing just three feet away from Hannibal, pointing a gun directly at his heart, but Hannibal wasn’t afraid of him. He was so certain that Will wouldn’t kill him. So certain that he had been forgiven for all the wrongs he’d done, all the pain he’d caused him. He was always so. Damn. Certain.

Will took a deep breath. He smiled. No matter how many elegant words Hannibal spun, there was one crucial teacup that he couldn’t put back together. “Abigail didn’t need to die.” 

He fired the gun.

***

Will’s eyes opened. He was back in the car again. With Hannibal. On the road. At midnight.

After Will had shot Hannibal, he went searching for Francis. He wasn’t hard to find--apparently he had heard the gunshot and had come to investigate what had happened. When Will told him what he’d done, that he’d denied him the opportunity to change Hannibal himself, Francis stabbed him with his knife. This time, he stabbed him in the heart.

As Will had laid on the ground, clutching at his chest, Francis had roared. Will thought of Hannibal’s brief look of surprise as he had glanced down at his chest to find a patch of blood spreading across his T-shirt. He had looked once more at Will before collapsing. He was no longer surprised, but disappointed.

Will couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed, himself. Killing Hannibal hadn’t felt as good as he had wanted it to feel. Killing him with a gun felt sloppy. Impersonal. Almost disrespectful.

And he was disappointed in himself, too. As soon as he’d pulled the trigger, he’d regretted it. There was no need to seek Francis out immediately. He could have waited until nightfall, when he knew that Francis would be attacking anyways. Yet he sought him out. He didn’t last more than five minutes in a world without Hannibal.

So he was relieved to find himself back where he’d started. Again.

Will looked over at Hannibal and could no longer summon any of the violent rage that had possessed him mere minutes before. He just felt relieved to have Hannibal beside him, alive. (And guilty for feeling so relieved.)

As though he could hear Will’s thoughts, Hannibal looked over at him and smiled. Will turned towards the window and tried very hard not to smile, himself.

***

They arrived at the house, changed, and rested. Night fell, and Will took his place at the kitchen window, watching the moon. As Hannibal poured them wine, Will waited restlessly for Francis. After seeing how horribly the preceding day had gone, Will decided it was best to stick as close to the procedure of events that had happened on the first day. He didn’t want to see Hannibal dead again. He wanted to kill with him again and remind himself why he needed him alive.

“Will?” Hannibal asked, with a slightly curious tilt to his head. Will realized that he’d been silent for quite some time.

“He’s watching us,” Will replied.

“I know.”

The wine bottle shattered, just as Will knew it would. Hannibal collapsed to the ground, as Will knew he would. Yet this time, he wasn’t able to stay calm and collected upon seeing Hannibal crumpled on the floor with blood soaking through his shirt. He thought of yesterday. Hannibal, bleeding through his T-shirt. Dying at his hands. He didn’t want this.

When Francis stepped through the window-frame, Will found himself reaching for his gun. He’d hardly had time to register what he was doing before Francis had fired again. This time, he wasn’t aiming for the stomach.

Will collapsed onto the floor in front Hannibal, blood burbling up into his mouth. He tried to focus on Hannibal, but his vision was darkening quickly. He felt a wet palm come to rest on his cheek, and everything went black.

***

Will didn’t bother opening his eyes, but he knew he was back in the car with Hannibal at midnight. For the fourth time. He relaxed on the now-familiar car seat beneath him and relished in the fact that he didn’t have a bullet in his chest.

He wasn’t sure why this was happening to him. He didn’t know what he was supposed to _do_. Because surely there had to be some reason that he was being forced to relive the same day over and over again. He wasn’t quite ready to accept that there was no escape, and that whoever or whatever was doing this to him simply wanted to make him suffer for eternity. No, there must be a reason.

But what? Will thought that he’d done everything right on the first day. He’d followed the plan. Killed Dolarhyde. Killed himself and Hannibal. He’d effectively removed all of the monsters from the playing board. Wasn’t that the way to win the game?

Maybe it was how he had gone about killing Francis that was deemed “incorrect” by whatever entity was controlling his life at the moment. Had he indulged himself too much? Felt too righteous and powerful while doing it? Maybe he was supposed to be redeeming himself, rather than giving in to whatever monstrous urges presented themselves when he found himself in the company of Hannibal Lecter.

Although he couldn’t entirely blame Hannibal for all he’d done. Hannibal hadn’t been there when Will had strung up Chiyoh’s prisoner in that basement. He didn’t bring out anything in Will that wasn’t there already. He was simply the burning match which ignited the flammable desires that naturally flowed through Will’s veins.

But those desires were probably best left unlit for everyone’s sake. For everyone’s sake except Hannibal’s, that is. 

This time, he would try killing Francis in a less gruesome manner. Maybe the goal of all of this was for Will to regain his morality. Or whatever he had left of it. And this way, neither he nor Hannibal had to die.

With this mindset, Will arrived at the house, waited for Hannibal to retire to his bedroom, and decided to find Francis on his own. Part of him was saddened by the experience that he would be denying himself and Hannibal to enjoy together later. But that was the part that he needed to “cut out”, as Jack had once suggested.

Will quickly quieted the small voice inside his head that reminded him that he couldn’t cut something out that was in his every cell.

He took his time exploring the terrain beyond the house and got to know the forest. After a few trips around the perimeter, he spotted Francis hiding behind a fallen tree, examining the camera that he’d brought with him to film Hannibal’s death.

_Alright. Regaining morality._

Before he even noticed Will’s presence, Will had taken out his gun and shot him right in the heart. Francis collapsed and was dead within seconds.

How dull.

Without giving the body another thought, Will turned back towards the house and retraced his path through the forest. Hannibal stood in the doorframe, waiting for him.

“Hello, Will,” he said. His eyes landed on the gun in Will’s hand. “Are congratulations in order?”

“The Dragon is dead. For real, this time,” Will replied. He resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably under Hannibal’s unrelenting stare.

“You killed him with a gun. While I slept,” Hannibal said calmly, as if he were daring Will to tell him otherwise. The air was thick with his disappointment.

“Francis was an animal. He deserved to be put down like one. Quickly and effectively.”

“I had hoped for more from you, Will. Do you think so lowly of yourself that you believe you must resort to firearms to inflict pain on others? Where is the man who killed Randall Tier with his bare hands, and wished, once, to do the same to me?”

“That man died with Abigail on your kitchen floor,” Will said, trying to think of a way to explain himself that wouldn’t result in any further bloodshed.

“Even as you say it, you know it isn’t true. Have you done this to punish me? Deny me of the privilege to kill alongside you?” Hannibal stepped down from the doorway and began to move towards him. “Or are you still ignorantly hoping to repress that beautiful part of you that yearns to be free? Still trying to play the part of the husband and the father? The respectable man with nothing to be ashamed of?”

Will held his ground, even as Hannibal closed the distance between them to a mere foot. No one should be able to look threatening in pajama pants and a T-shirt, yet Hannibal was managing, somehow. 

“I don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” Will said.

“My dear Will. I know that. But do you?”

Will was starting to get frustrated. If only Hannibal knew. This wasn’t his choice. Whatever was trapping him in this day, whatever higher power had decided to intervene in their lives, it was _that_ thing’s fault. That was the only reason he--

Will gasped. He had hardly noticed the knife puncture his skin until Hannibal had pulled it back out. _Again? Really?_

Will let the gun fall onto the ground as he clutched his chest, more annoyed than anything. He had already died three times in the past few days. What was once more?

This time was slower, though. And at the hands of Hannibal. Which stung. More than it ought to.

“I am so sorry, Will,” Hannibal murmured, as he joined Will on the ground. “Perhaps, in death, you can finally be free.”

“See you next time,” Will grunted, and closed his eyes.

***

Today was the first time Will had noticed the radio playing in the car. Leave it to Hannibal to find a classical music station in a hijacked police vehicle. 

As the pleasant melodies floated through the air, Will once again tried to come up with an explanation for what was happening to him. He had killed Hannibal and Dolarhyde. He had been killed _by_ Hannibal and Dolarhyde. Nothing he’d done had worked. No matter who he killed or how morally righteous he’d tried to be, he still ended up dead at the end of every loop.

Unless… was that it? The one commonality between every day so far had been his death. Maybe the universe (or God, or whoever) just wanted him to _survive_.

That was an awfully selfish theory. But it was a theory nonetheless. And at this point, that was all he needed.

When he was in Hannibal’s company, Will made sure to play the part of the conflicted accomplice that Hannibal would be expecting. He didn’t do anything to provoke Hannibal’s rage, and he didn’t think about Abigail or Molly or Walter to avoid provoking his own. 

Hannibal, he could live with. He’d been doing so for years. And although he’d had more than a few near-death experiences in the process of doing so, he hadn’t actually _died_ yet. Well, not before the loops, at least. And Hannibal had only killed him after Will had gone against his own instincts. He could tell that something hadn’t been right.

Will knew Hannibal. He’d studied him for years. Learned his secrets, his passions, his desires. He knew what to expect from him. Or he liked to think that he did.

Francis, on the other hand, still remained somewhat of a wild-card to Will. Through recreating his murders and sharing a few conversations with him, Will had begun to gather an understanding of the man who fancied himself a Dragon, but he couldn’t yet see him as clearly defined as he could see Hannibal.

If Will’s theory proved to be wrong, however, he would have nothing but time to study Francis and learn to anticipate his every move. It just might take a couple of days. Or weeks. Or who knows how long.

Or maybe it would all be over tonight, after he survived. He had to keep hope alive a bit longer, or eternity was going to quickly become excruciatingly unbearable.

By the time the sky had begun to darken, Will was feeling restless. He wished Francis would just show up already so they could get this over with. He was a bit surprised at this thought. Will already felt like the man who had first waited in this kitchen, brimming with conflict and anticipation and eagerness, was a stranger. If he already felt so detached from himself now, how would he feel after the hundredth repetition? Would he even be himself any more?

 _Hope_ , he reminded himself. It had taken him a disturbingly brief time to forget that bit of self-administered advice. Maintaining some positivity might be harder than he’d originally anticipated.

He just wanted Francis to shoot the fucking window already.

But did he want him to shoot Hannibal? Maybe, if one of them wasn’t bleeding out on the floor at the start of their fight, they would be able to dispose of Francis without accumulating too much damage themselves. They would still be able to experience the murder together, but just not to the same degree as the first time around. Without some of the animalistic, adrenaline-filled rage. Which was disappointing. But necessary, perhaps, to break this loop. 

If they both refrained from getting too passionate about the murder, it would be easier to avoid getting as passionate with themselves after. And maybe then, they could both survive. 

He would rather Hannibal be mildly disappointed than angry. Or dead.

At last, Hannibal had come into the kitchen and poured them both wine.

“He’s watching us. Most likely from the woods out there. He’d have a good vantage point and plenty of cover among the trees,” Will said, nodding towards the window Hannibal was currently standing in front of.

“I know,” Hannibal replied, much the same as he had done previous times. This gave Will pause. He didn’t find it surprising that Hannibal knew that Francis would be watching them. That much was obvious. But he knew where Francis would most likely be watching them from… and he still chose to stand between Will and the gun pointed at them?

Seized by an impulse he couldn’t quite name, Will leapt at Hannibal and knocked him to the ground just as the bullet came crashing through the window. Will pushed himself slightly off of Hannibal so he could see his face, but remained where he was, hovering over him. Hannibal licked his lips, and Will followed the movement with his eyes. When he looked back up into Hannibal’s eyes, he was surprised by the fire that burned in them. 

Just as he felt something clench in his stomach, he heard the sounds of footsteps quickly approaching them. He rolled off of Hannibal and started to reach for his gun when Hannibal’s arm shot out and stopped him. Will couldn’t help but feel a thrill when he understood. _Not like that._

Will nodded. His mouth was very dry, suddenly.

Hannibal raised himself off of the floor and contracted his body like a compressed spring, ready to pounce. Will was still on the floor beside him, mesmerized.

When Francis came charging through the door, Hannibal leapt at his legs, and Francis fired his gun again as he went down. Will repossessed his body and scrambled off the floor, running over to them and grabbing at Francis’ waist, where he knew the knife must be. Will finally located the blade and plunged it in Francis’ chest while Hannibal held his legs down solidly to the floor. Francis roared something unintelligible and made an effort to aim the gun at Will, but Will quickly pulled the knife out from Francis’ chest and stabbed it through his hand holding the gun instead. 

The gun clattered to the ground but could barely be heard amongst Francis’ howls of pain. Will pulled the knife out once more and stabbed it firmly into the side of Francis’ neck. As Francis clutched at the knife, his legs began to kick out at him, and Will noticed that Hannibal had released his hold on Francis. Confused, Will turned towards him and froze when he saw Hannibal’s shirt covered in blood once more. Francis must have hit him after Hannibal first grabbed his legs. Will pushed away from Francis, who lay writhing on the floor, and moved towards Hannibal, who was crumpled in the corner. 

“Shit,” Will murmured, as he pushed Hannibal’s arms away from his chest to see where he’d been shot. Francis had missed his heart, but barely. The bullet must’ve pierced a lung.

Hannibal was taking very loud, gasping breaths. His arms wrapped feebly around Will’s own, pressing them to him.

“C’mon, Hannibal. You’re not dying on me now. C’mon, hey. Look at me.”

Hannibal blinked several times before he could focus on Will’s face. He smiled. He gave one last, rattling breath. And then his eyes glazed over.

Will sat frozen, stupefied by the horrific sight in front of him. When he could finally peel his eyes away from Hannibal’s face, he gently extricated his arms from Hannibal’s, which flopped, lifeless, towards the ground. Will was nearly sick.

He turned, furious, towards Francis, who was whimpering and grabbing at his neck with failing strength. Will stood over him and yanked the knife from out of his neck, and as the blood spurted out, Will felt nothing but disgust and contempt for the miserable creature who lay beneath his feet.

After he was positive that Francis was dead, he turned slowly back towards Hannibal. He looked so small and so fragile as he lay in the corner of the kitchen, empty of all that made him the man that Will had come to know and desire.

All of a sudden, Will was seized by the need to find a clock. What time was it? What if it was midnight? He had survived, after all. Would this loop become reality if he was still alive by the end of the night?

He finally pried his eyes away from Hannibal’s body and found the clock hanging above the stove. 10:38. 

He had a little over an hour to decide on the outcome of the rest of his life.

Will staggered over to one of the chairs and sunk into it. He looked at his trembling hands, covered in blood. Both Francis’ and Hannibal’s. For some reason, it troubled him that he couldn’t distinguish whose was whose.

If he chose not to do anything and waited until the clock struck midnight, what would happen after that? Assuming he didn’t wake up back in the police car with Hannibal, where would he go from here? 

It probably wouldn’t take Jack and the FBI long to follow his and Hannibal’s trail to this house. Once they arrived, they would want an explanation. What had happened? And more importantly, why hadn’t Will used his gun?

None of them would understand. They couldn’t understand. The only man who could was lying against the piano, dead.

If he waited for the next day to start, Will was going to have a life full of misunderstanding to look forward to. He wouldn’t ever be able to explain what had happened to him during these repeated days, and he wouldn’t be able to explain why he chose to do what he did today. 

He would go back to Molly and Walter as a different man. One who no longer fit in the neatly cut jigsaw puzzle that was their lives. He would go back to a world where Alana and Jack and Jimmy and Brian and everyone would be grateful that Hannibal Lecter was dead. And, worst of all, they would be expecting him to feel just as grateful.

Living in a world without Hannibal would be like living in a world without light. Will would be fumbling around in the dark for the rest of his days, trying to derive some sense of pleasure from what meager resources the world had to offer. Sure, he could manage. He could find someone else to love, find more strays to adopt, find new hobbies to pursue. But he would just be doing exactly what he’d done after Muskrat Farm. Desperately trying to find something, anything, to fill the gaping hole inside of him that Hannibal had left in his wake. Only this time, he wouldn’t have the knowledge that Hannibal was out there, alive, to keep him going when all else had failed.

Will took a deep breath and reached for his gun. He knew what he had to do.

***

As the first few notes from the piano reached Will’s ears, he felt tears spring into his eyes. He turned towards the car window and bit down hard on his lip in order to prevent himself from making a scene. 

But he was here. He was _alive_. And when he had managed to calm himself enough to put on what he hoped was a blank expression, he looked to his left.

_Hannibal._

He had never felt as glad to see the man next to him in all the time he’d known him, except maybe for at the Uffizi Gallery. Even then, though, Will had known that Hannibal was alive. Today…

Hannibal turned to him and smiled. This time, Will couldn’t help but smile back.

***

Later that day, Will sat in the kitchen, in the very chair that he’d collapsed in on the previous night. It was just beginning to get dark, and Hannibal had recently emerged from his room after resting for most of the day. He had taken it upon himself to put together a meal for them with some canned food he’d found, and was busying himself at the stove.

Will couldn’t help but stare at the spot on the floor where Hannibal had died the night before. Or the spot where he’d tackled Hannibal to the ground, just before Francis had come into the kitchen, and for a second he’d thought… something might happen. But they hadn’t had any time. Will had nothing but time, now.

“I started seeing Bedelia as my psychiatrist after I came to visit you in Baltimore,” Will said.

Hannibal turned around and looked at him, intrigued.

“Did you find her to be an adequate substitute?” he asked.

“Not in any way that mattered,” Will answered, looking straight into Hannibal’s eyes. He was met with a quiet satisfaction.

Will paused and let Hannibal turn back to the stove before adding, “I asked her if you were in love with me. She said yes, more or less.”

Hannibal didn’t answer verbally, but his back tensed. It was silent for a few minutes.

“I cannot deny that which you are accusing me of, if that’s what you’re doing. Is this an accusation, Will?’ Hannibal finally responded. He turned back towards Will and studied his face.

“Not an accusation, no. Merely an observation,” Will replied.

“How does this observation make you feel?”

Will took a second to ponder this question. 

“Powerful,” he said, and he saw the same desire flicker across Hannibal’s face that he had seen after tackling him to the ground. “And curious.”

Hannibal waited, as if expecting Will to elaborate, but when he didn’t, he said, “My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will.” He turned back towards the stove.

Will shut his mouth before he let the line about being passionate towards a cow get out again. He thought about last night. How he’d chosen the chance to see Hannibal again over the chance to end these loops.

“I’m beginning to find the same to be true about my compassion for you,” Will said, and as the words left his mouth, their sincerity almost startled him.

Hannibal paused once more. He turned off the stove and turned to face Will, leaning against the nearby countertop.

“Now what’s to be done about that?” Hannibal replied, almost as if he were issuing a challenge. Will felt a tug in his stomach.

“I’m… still trying to figure that part out,” Will murmured. Hannibal nodded and did him the favor of dropping the conversation. 

He retrieved two bowls from a cupboard and began to pour what he’d been cooking on the stove into the bowls. Hannibal moved over to the table and deposited a bowl in front of his place and Will’s. Will realized, with amusement, that it was SpaghettiOs. He cocked an eyebrow. Hannibal huffed as he took his place across from Will.

“It is difficult to maintain a plentiful food supply in one’s houses when one is in prison for three years,” Hannibal said, eyeing the SpaghettiOs with distaste. He waited until Will had taken a few bites to add, “They were a favorite of Abigail’s.”

Will had more difficulty eating them after that.

“Was she… happy here?” he asked, finally. It still pained him to think of her. But he had always wondered about her time spent with Hannibal. Had always envied him for it.

“Yes. She did well living somewhere where she didn’t need to hide who she was. Being ’dead’ to the world does have its privileges.”

Will sighed. _A mutually unspoken pact to ignore the worst in one another to continue enjoying the best._ He hadn’t quite perfected the ability to ignore Abigail’s death yet. But he’d already killed Hannibal once over it. And he wasn’t intending on repeating that anytime soon.

After Will had finished his bowl, he excused himself to his room. Thinking of Abigail had caused his thoughts to wander to Walter. Another one of his children, lost to Hannibal. 

But Walter wasn’t dead. And neither was Molly. They were still in the hospital, trying to recover the parts of themselves that they’d lost the night that Francis entered the house. Did they even know that he was missing right now? Probably not. Jack wouldn’t want to draw attention to the fact that Hannibal Lecter had escaped custody. He’d just wait until the events of the night had unfolded, and then report the damage. Or, better yet, he’d probably hoped that Will would be coming back to give them the report himself. Little did he know, Will had no intention of going back.

A surge of guilt and shame flooded through him. _He had no intention of going back_. He had thrust himself into Molly and Walter’s lives, caused them irreparable damage, and then deserted them without a word of goodbye. Wally lost two fathers and Molly lost two husbands to an insidious cancer growing inside of them that no one could cure.

That’s how most people would see it, at least. Hannibal would disagree. 

Will had hardly noticed that he was calling Molly until he heard her soft “Hello?”

He fumbled in the process of bringing the phone to his ear and almost dropped it on the floor.

“Hi,” he managed to get out. 

“Hi.”

This was a bad idea. He had no idea what to say. 

“Molly… I’m so sorry.” 

A brief silence. And then: “About anything in particular?”

Will tried to cut off the laugh before it escaped his throat but didn’t quite succeed. He bit his lip. 

“I’m sorry about all of it. I’m sorry that I dragged you into my world.” 

A deep breath. “Will, this is sounding awfully final. Is everything okay with you?”

Molly was concerned. For him. As she was lying in a hospital bed, nursing the injury that she’d obtained while trying to escape from the serial killer who’d broken into her house. She was concerned for _him_.

“You deserve better than me, Mol. Promise me that you won’t feel bad when you move on. _Please_ move on.” Will’s voice broke. 

“Will, whatever you’re thinking of doing, please don’t. This isn’t your fault. It’s the Dragon’s fault. And it’s _his_ fault.” She didn’t have to specify who she meant by that. The amount of venom with which she spat the word made it perfectly obvious.

But she wasn’t entirely right about that. It was Francis’ fault, it was Hannibal’s fault, and it was Will’s fault. 

“I… I never told you the full story. Of what happened. Between Hannibal and I,” Will said, and paused. Was this just going to torture her more? He just wanted to make it easier for her to move on and forget about him. And it would be easier to do that if she hated him. If she truly understood who he had become—who he had always been—then the hate would be sure to follow. 

“You told me about how he got inside your head and manipulated you while you were his patient. He framed you for his crimes and got you sent to jail. And when you got out, you had to pretend to be a murderer and do… horrible things to try and manipulate _him_. Until he stabbed you and left you for dead. Does anything else matter?” she said, exasperated. Will couldn’t help but feel a small flare of anger at that. His and Hannibal’s relationship was so much more than what anybody else tried to describe it as. It was complex and raw and powerful and… beautiful. 

“I… omitted certain parts of the story when I first told it to you. Like how I almost ran away with him that night I was stabbed by him. Because I _wanted to_. And how I sailed across the Atlantic to find him. After he stabbed me. Because I missed him. And how…” Will flushed. _And how sometimes, when we were intimate, I wasn’t always thinking about you_. _And how I thought about him every day during those three years when I didn’t see him._ _And how I ached._

Some things didn’t need to be said out loud.

Molly was silent for so long that Will had to check if she’d hung up.

“Are you with him right now?” she asked quietly.

Will closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Is that... what you want?” Will heard the thinly veiled distaste in her voice, even as she was doing her best to hide it.

“I think so,” Will admitted. He laughed. “I know that sounds absurd. But, the more I think about it… I think it is what I want. I really am sorry, Molly.”

“I’m not sorry that you found us, Will,” she said, with conviction. “Those three years weren’t perfect, but they were pretty damn nice. I loved you.” _Loved. Past tense._ “I knew what I was getting into.” A pause. “But if you feel like you have to leave, I understand. We’ll heal. Walter’s strong. I’m strong. We’ll heal.”

Will could feel his eyes getting wet. He thought of running through the yard with Molly and the dogs. Playing catch with Walter. Teaching him how to fish. Lying in bed with Molly, her solid arms around him after a nightmare. These memories were tinged with gold and smiles and laughter. They smelled of apples and fire and rain. Of a home.

“I love you, Molly,” he said. And it was true. He might not feel the same way about her as he did Hannibal, but he couldn’t deny that he loved her. Thinking about her made him feel warm and safe. But also lonely. She fell in love with the version of himself that he deemed acceptable to present to the outside world.

Hannibal had fallen in love with the truest version of himself. Thinking about Hannibal didn’t make him feel safe. But it made him feel excited and nervous and accepted and _alive_.

“Is this goodbye?” Molly asked, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. “It’s feeling like a goodbye.”

“I think it is. I think it would be best for both of us if it is.”

“I’ll miss you,” Molly said. Her voice wobbled, and Will instantly wished he could be there to put his arms around her. He hated causing her pain, even if this was necessary.

And because it was the right thing to say, Will said, “I’ll miss you, too. Tell Wally for me?”

“Of course.” Pause. “Goodbye, Will.”

“Goodbye, Molly.”

He sat there for a few minutes after she had hung up, still holding the phone up to his ear. His heart sank as he realized that this was unlikely to be the final loop of today’s events that he would have to live through. A deep exhaustion settled in his bones at the thought. He couldn’t have this conversation with her every day for the rest of eternity. Not if he wanted it to mean something. He was disconcerted that some Mollys would never be getting a goodbye from him. He owed her that. It was the least he owed her.

Will didn’t know where to go from here. He hadn’t entered this day with a goal or a certain mindset. He just wanted to see Hannibal alive again. He had no idea what he should do now.

The repetitions were beginning to take a toll on him. He was sick of having to deal with Francis every day. Sick of having to worry about losing Hannibal every day. Sick of having to play the universe’s game.

If he was going to look on the positive side of things, he supposed that he was grateful that he had been able to have more time to get to understand himself and his feelings about Hannibal. He was finally beginning to think about what he had forbidden himself from ever considering.

Could he see a future for him and Hannibal? He couldn’t see any future for himself without Hannibal. But would they be able to cohabitate without killing each other?

He supposed he would find out. The idea both thrilled and scared him. But that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? Something that made him feel alive.

Thinking about the future, Will opened the door to his room and made to go back to the kitchen when the soft notes from the piano made him pause. Will smiled, thinking of Hannibal’s hands dancing across the keys. Would he be concentrated intensely on producing the perfect combination of notes? Or would he be relaxed, confident in his own ability and talent, knowing that he wouldn’t make a mistake?

Will stepped into the kitchen and waited for Hannibal to finish the piece. For a moment, he envisioned himself walking up to Hannibal and draping his arms around his shoulders as he played. The thought seemed strangely domestic. Could they ever have something like that?

“You are thinking very loudly, Will,” Hannibal said, as he played the final notes. He hadn’t even turned around. Was his sense of smell _that_ refined? “Is something bothering you?”

“I just got off the phone with Molly,” Will said. “We said goodbye.”

“Most relationships begin with a simple hello and end with a complicated farewell,” Hannibal said, rising from the piano and turning to face him.

“You and I’s relationship didn’t begin with ‘a simple hello.’”

“And I hope that it will not be ending with a complicated farewell.”

“Ours doesn’t tend to include many of the typical elements of a relationship,” Will replied.

“It could,” Hannibal answered. “If you would like it to.”

“Would _you_ like it to?” Will asked, knowing that he was deflecting, but not caring much. He was curious if Hannibal had ever been in a sustained relationship with anyone that he’d actually cared about before.

“I would be happy to acquiesce to any of your needs or desires, Will.” Hannibal smiled. “You already know this to be true, yet you would still have me say it aloud.”

“I do like to hear you say it out loud,” Will admitted. “There’s a certain elegance that can be found in frankness.”

“To be quite frank with you, Will, I am a bit surprised at this change of heart you seem to have had. Up until this afternoon, I had believed that you were intending to watch the Great Red Dragon kill me tonight. Do you still feel similarly inclined?”

“I was intending to watch him change you, yes. But I’ve been thinking about how you’ve changed me. And how I’ve changed you.” Will took a step towards Hannibal. He glanced at the clock above the stove as he did so. 9:23. They should still have some time.

Hannibal appraised him with a slight edge of disbelief. Did he think Will was playing another game with him? But then again, Will wasn’t sure he could blame him for being skeptical. The first night he’d been here with Hannibal, he’d been certain that at least one of them wouldn’t be leaving this house alive. Now, though, he _wanted_ to survive. And he wanted Hannibal with him.

He took another step forward. Hannibal had yet to move from his spot by the piano. And he didn’t look as if he intended on moving. He wanted Will to come to him. To choose him.

And after all the time that Will had had to think on it, he’d finally begun to feel ready to make that choice.

“When you cut me open in your house that night,” Will began, and Hannibal’s face twitched almost imperceptibly. “When did you decide to do so?” He took another step forward. “Did you make up your mind when Jack showed up in your kitchen? When Alana came, and you knew I wouldn’t be far behind?”

Hannibal’s gaze was almost too strong to return, but Will maintained eye contact nonetheless. He continued to move forward.

“Or was it when you saw me? When you laid your hand on my cheek?” Will was nearly whispering at this point, but they were so close that he didn’t need to speak any louder.

Hannibal blinked. Looked down at Will’s lips. Looked back up into Will’s eyes. Will placed his left hand on Hannibal’s cheek, a mirror image of their stance on that bloody night. Except that he wasn’t reaching for a knife with his right hand. He was--

Stumbling back from Hannibal in confusion and pain. He looked down at his chest, at the spreading stain of red, and back up at Hannibal, betrayal etched into every line of his face. But his quickly mounting sense of rage and hurt was quelled at the sight of a matching red stain on Hannibal’s own shirt. 

Fuck. Francis must not have been happy with what he’d been seeing.

Will’s knees swayed, and Hannibal reached for him, attempting to steady him. Will collapsed and brought them both down.

Hannibal had managed to pull himself up and was attempting to put pressure on Will’s wound. Will covered his hands with his own and gently pried them off of his chest. Hannibal stared at their clasped hands and Will stared at Hannibal until the edges of his vision began to blur.

“Don’t worry,” Will murmured. He smiled. “I’ll see you soon.”

***

Will opened his eyes and sighed. He’d thought that maybe--just maybe--that last repetition would’ve been the final loop. He had fully prepared himself to leave the world behind and join Hannibal in the next phase of their lives together. But Francis had rudely interrupted him before he could fully impose his enthusiasm and willingness onto Hannibal.

What did he have to do to stop waking up in this car? Francis had to die. Will had to survive. And he wasn’t going to do that without Hannibal. So Hannibal had to survive as well.

Guaranteeing his and Hannibal’s survival should have been much easier than it truly was. One wrong move, one wrong word, and everything shattered. Everything was all so fragile.

“You once told me that a teacup you’d shattered had come back together,” Will said. He took a deep breath. “For the past few days, I’ve felt like a teacup. Each night, I shatter. Each morning, I come back together. It’s an endless cycle. And no matter what I do, I can’t seem to break it.”

Will glanced over at Hannibal, who shifted his gaze briefly away from the road to meet Will’s eyes. When he seemed to find sincerity there, he refocused on the road. Will’s words didn’t do anything to alter the neutral expression on his face.

Will huffed and continued. “Every morning, I wake up in this car, at midnight. We drive to your cliffside house on the Atlantic. The same house where you took Abigail and Miriam Lass. And around ten thirty at night, the Dragon shoots a bullet through the window facing the forest and tries to kill us. Well, you, mainly. Sometimes I get in the way of that, and he doesn’t like that very much.” Will smiled grimly. “But no matter what happens, I die every night.”

When Hannibal continued to remain silent, Will started to wonder if this was a bad idea. He’d put off telling Hannibal about his situation for the fear that he wouldn’t be believed. With good reason. The last time Will had tried to confide in Hannibal about his disorientation and lack of control over his surroundings, Hannibal had framed him for multiple murders. But their relationship had changed immeasurably since then. Now, he hoped, if anyone was to believe him, it would be Hannibal.

“I thought I’d done everything right the first time around. We killed the Dragon, and I…” Will hesitated. Would it be wise to tell the man who currently held his life in his hands that he’d killed him in another version of today? 

But what did he have to lose? If Hannibal did decide to kill him, he’d just be back here again tomorrow.

“I pulled us both off of the cliff. We died when we hit the sea.” Will grimaced as a surge of unwelcome memories of fists clenched in bloody shirts and sharp, assailing winds and a looming sense of doom forced their way into his brain. He turned to his left and saw that Hannibal looked pensive, but not alarmed.

“In Greek mythology, Glauce, wife of Jason, received a poisoned bridal robe from Medea. In an effort to cleanse herself of the poison, she flung herself into a well and drowned,” Hannibal said. “It seems as though you were attempting to achieve something similar when you flung yourself into the sea. Only you hoped to drown he who had bestowed the robe upon you as well.”

Will thought about that comparison for a few moments. “Both Glauce and I felt as though we had no other choice. Either die slowly from poison or try to save ourselves while we still had enough presence of mind to do so.”

“Do you feel as if you’ve cleansed yourself of your poison, Will?”

“I haven’t cleansed myself of anything. I’ve just come to realize that this poison isn’t lethal. And it isn’t malevolent, either. It’s… invigorating,” Will said. “Beautiful.” When he glanced over, he saw Hannibal looking at him with a fondness similar to the time when Will had bitten Cordell at Muskrat Farm.

“Perhaps the goal of these repetitions all along was for you to learn that lesson,” Hannibal suggested, sounding so pleased that, for just a moment, Will wondered if he could have somehow orchestrated these loops himself. A ridiculous theory. Hannibal was many things, but a supernatural being with the ability to shape time and reality was not one of them. (Right?)

“That certainly suits your agenda awfully well,” Will said. Hannibal’s smile widened. “Regardless of what I’ve come to accept, though, I still don’t know how to escape this.”

“Have you come to accept everything about yourself, yet? Or do you still find certain desires lurking in the corners of your mind, straining against the bonds that you’ve bound them with?” Hannibal asked, with that knowing edge that insinuated that he knew something Will had yet to realize.

Will lapsed into silence as he thought of straddling Hannibal after knocking him to the ground in an effort to save him from Francis’ bullet. Putting his hand on Hannibal’s cheek. 

His silence gave Hannibal the answer he seemed to be looking for. “One cannot be fully reborn without learning to accept everything about oneself,” Hannibal said. “Until you’ve done that, you may keep finding yourself trapped in an effort to rebirth yourself without success.”

Will turned back towards his window. He thought of life, of death, and of Hannibal, and eventually he drifted off to sleep.

***

At six o’clock that night, Hannibal walked into the kitchen to see Will standing over the stove, cooking the same SpaghettiOs that Hannibal had made for him the previous night. He came closer and grimaced when he saw what was in the pot.

Will grinned. “I can’t deny that seeing you react to having to eat SpaghettiOs hasn’t been a benefit of having to relive this day over and over again.”

Hannibal gave him a small smile in return and moved away from the stove, taking a seat at the piano. He played a light, pleasant array of notes that Will found quite relaxing. After he had finished the piece, and Will was moving to pour some of the pasta into bowls, Hannibal turned back towards him.

“I do find myself curious about this predicament of yours, Will,” he said. “What did you do when you first realized what was happening to you?”

Will took a seat at the table and placed Hannibal’s bowl at the setting across from his own. Hannibal moved to take his place and eyed the bowl warily.

Will blew on his spoon before taking a bite. “The first time I had to relive today, I killed you,” he said. He flashed a quick smile at Hannibal before eating his spoonful.

Hannibal looked far more amused at this statement than he had any right to be.

“I told myself that I was doing it for Beverly and Molly and Abigail,” Will continued, “but I don’t think that was the whole truth. I think I was ashamed of myself for taking such pleasure in killing with you on that first night. I foolishly thought I could still redeem myself.” He dipped his spoon back into the SpaghettiOs and smiled. These emotions he was describing were so foreign.

“Am I to correctly assume that you no longer feel a sense of shame about what transpired that night?” Hannibal questioned. His food still laid untouched, but he was watching Will with such focus that it was as if he was receiving nourishment just from their interaction.

Will nodded. “I’ve killed you and I’ve killed Dolarhyde while I’ve been stuck in this loop. But nothing I’ve done has come close to evoking the same passion I felt on that first night with you.”

Hannibal smiled. “After Eve ate the Forbidden Fruit, no berry she consumed afterwards could produce the same satisfaction.”

“Defiance does have a sweet taste to it,” Will admitted.

“As does satisfying a long-held curiosity,” Hannibal added.

“I’m curious as to how we should proceed tonight,” Will said, changing topics. “Should we use what we know to avoid the Dragon’s attacks and kill him quickly and efficiently? Or should we proceed similarly to the first night, acting and reacting on instinct?”

Hannibal thought this over for a few seconds before responding. “Tonight will not be the last repetition of this loop for you, Will. That ecstasy which you experienced on that first night will not be able to be reproduced if we are both prepared for what is to come.”

Will nodded somberly. What Hannibal was saying made sense, even if he wished it didn’t. It felt so good to finally share what he’d been feeling for the past few days aloud. But if he wanted to break the loops, Hannibal couldn’t know what he was going through. They had to have an authentic experience together, and Will had to choose to accept all of himself on his own terms.

He finished his dinner and placed his bowl in the sink.

“Would you like to hasten the process?” Hannibal asked.

Will didn’t understand. “Which process would that be?”

“Our dying,” Hannibal replied. His casual tone was hardly suited for what he was saying.

“You’d rather not wait for the Dragon?” Will asked. He wasn’t quite sure what Hannibal was getting at.

“I see no reason why we must.” Hannibal opened his mouth again and paused for a moment, seeming slightly unsure as to how to phrase his next thought. Will couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever done that in his presence.

“Say it how you wanted to say it,” he said. He didn’t think there was much left in this world that could revolt or frighten him. Especially not concerning Hannibal.

“If you are prepared to do what you must to break this loop, may I indulge myself in this version of today?” Hannibal asked. When Will still seemed unsure of his meaning, Hannibal clarified for him. “Will you allow me to kill you?”

Will leaned against the kitchen counter and considered Hannibal’s request. The thought of being killed by Hannibal wasn’t wholly offsetting. But the thought of being powerless at his hands was. He was no longer able to completely surrender himself to Hannibal. Not now that he’d gotten a taste of power himself. 

“Will you allow me to kill _you_?” he finally answered.

Hannibal smiled. “Nothing would please me more.”

***

Will wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed from here. He had never killed someone while simultaneously being killed before.

“Will? Are you sure about this?” Hannibal asked. He had risen from his seat at the table, but Will still remained, unmoved, by the counter. “If I was not sure that you would relive this day again, I would not ask.”

“I’m sure,” Will answered. And he was. He couldn’t deny that the idea had surprised him at first, but now that he was imagining it… it seemed oddly intimate. “How?”

“You once told me that you fantasized about killing me. How did you envision yourself doing so?” 

“In various different ways. But I found the idea of cutting your throat to be most satisfying,” Will said. Hannibal nodded. He walked out of the kitchen without another word and returned with a knife, much like the one he’d used to cut Will’s stomach open years ago.

“Not here,” Will said. He didn’t want Francis to interrupt them this time. And he didn’t want Francis to be watching them, either. This was an experience for him and Hannibal alone.

Hannibal nodded. He began to move back towards the hallway. Will followed closely behind. 

Hannibal stopped just in front of his bedroom door. He turned back towards Will with a devilish grin. Will raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to start saying something (what, he wasn’t even sure) when Hannibal was upon him in a blink of an eye. He shoved him against the hallway wall and pressed the knife to Will’s throat. Will tilted his head upwards, baring his neck for him. Then, maintaining fierce eye contact the whole time, Hannibal slit his throat. 

Will began gasping for breath and reached for his throat, but Hannibal’s left hand was already over it, pressing down on the cut. Will felt the knife being pressed into his right hand, and, with a much sloppier execution than Hannibal’s, he raised the knife to Hannibal’s throat and pulled it across.

Hannibal hardly registered the pain on his face. He was too busy staring at Will, brimming with passion and pleasure at the sight before him. 

Will made no effort to staunch the flow of blood from Hannibal’s throat, and neither did Hannibal. He was just as transfixed by watching Hannibal as Hannibal was with him. In his fantasies, he had never been able to capture Hannibal’s _warmth_ and little gasps and growls as his blood spilled all over him. A quick glance down showed him that Hannibal was equally soaked in Will’s blood. The sight filled Will with a strange sense of pride.

The edges of his vision began to darken, and Will pried Hannibal’s hand off of his throat. He buried his head into Hannibal’s shoulder, arms grasping for him, much as he found himself doing on their first night on the cliff. He felt Hannibal smile into the crook of his neck.

And as he gasped his last breaths, there was only one name on Will’s mind.

***

Will’s eyes fluttered open. He focused on the upbeat notes of the piano and tried to restore his breathing to a normal rate. But that was slightly difficult to do when images of Hannibal, bloody and _voracious_ kept playing on repeat in his mind.

“What is this piece called?” Will asked, in an attempt to ground himself in the present. He hoped that his voice sounded normal.

Hannibal looked pleased that Will had asked. “This is Bach’s Goldberg Variations. It was originally written for the harpsichord, but this artist has done an adequate job with their piano rendition.”

Will nodded absentmindedly. Goldberg Variations. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever want to hear it again after escaping these loops. Or maybe he would, and he’d look back on these days with a fond sentimentality. He couldn’t yet imagine ever feeling fond over this particular experience. But in a few years from now, who knew?

Where would he even be a few years from now? Once he and Hannibal killed Francis, what had Hannibal been planning to do? Will should have asked him yesterday, while he’d known. But maybe it was better that he hadn’t. It didn’t really matter, in the end. He was willing to go wherever Hannibal was anyways. And after tonight, he would finally be experiencing something new. Something _different_. He couldn’t help but long for a change from what had become his new normal. He couldn’t help but long for a new, exciting life with Hannibal.

Will smiled and felt himself lowering into a pleasant sleep.

***

Will woke as the car was shifted into park. They had arrived at the house.

Hannibal got out of the car and made his way towards the bluff. Will dutifully followed him to the edge and stared down into the sea. This is where it had all started. His violent baptism by the Atlantic.

“...when I was here with Miriam Lass,” Hannibal was saying. Will blinked out of his reverie.

“Now you’re here with me,” he replied, sure to inflect the right amount of contempt and conflict into his words. 

“And the bluff is still eroding,” Hannibal continued. Will waited a few minutes after Hannibal had walked back towards the house before following him inside. 

He would be lying if he said that it didn’t feel good to be in control of the situation for once, rather than being helpless to Hannibal’s whims. Hannibal didn’t know that Will was aware of everything that would come to be. He didn’t know the power that he held over the situation. That thrilled him.

Will supposed that was how Hannibal felt most of the time. No wonder he derived such pleasure from manipulating everyone around him without their knowledge of his doing so. Will could easily see how it could be addicting.

Will followed Hannibal down the hallway as he pointed out Will’s bedroom and bathroom to him. Will did his best to feign curiosity and interest in what he would be expected to see as new surroundings. When Hannibal announced that he would be retiring to his bedroom for a few hours, just as Will knew he would, Will nodded and settled into his own room. 

He glanced at his bed, remembering that painful conversation with Molly. Shit. He was going to have to make that call at some point. He owed her that goodbye.

But that could wait. Today was about him and Hannibal.

He trailed his hands over the racks of shirts that hung in his closet. All the perfect size, of course. Over the past few days, he’d tried most of them on at one point or another. It was infuriating how much he found himself liking all of them.

He settled on the plain white shirt that he’d chosen on the first night. Procured the matching pants from the bureau in the corner of the room. Washed his face. Styled his hair. He felt like an actor preparing for his on-stage debut. But that wasn’t entirely dissimilar to what he was intending on doing. He was still going to fulfill his role. He had just rewritten the ending.

After he was satisfied with his appearance, Will took to wandering the house that he had come to be so familiar with. He stopped in briefly to Abigail’s room and placed the photograph of her, Will, and Hannibal in his pocket. He left the plaid scarf under the bed. Let some part of her remain here.

Will made his way to the kitchen. He paused in front of Hannibal’s bedroom, staring at the wall which had been, just hours ago, covered in a mixture of their blood. He pressed his palm against it for just a moment before continuing down the hall. 

Ah, this kitchen. So much had transpired here. Piano-playing and SpaghettiO-eating and wine-pouring and bleeding out and almost kissing. Will walked towards the window facing the patio and tried to remember exactly where he’d stood on that first night. He rehearsed the plan in his head. _Ten o’clock. Stand here. Accept the wine. Wait for the shot. Reach for the gun. Get stabbed._

Will winced. He had almost forgotten about that. He felt his un-impaled cheek and sighed. Unfortunately, he had to let that happen. Who knew what might change otherwise? He couldn’t afford to risk that. Not tonight. Not when he finally believed that he’d be getting out of here.

He was ready now. He was ready to move on.

***

Will took his place in front of the window at 10:23. He couldn’t remember the exact time he’d been here the first time around, but knew he was close enough. He watched the window and waited.

Sure enough, there was Hannibal. Footsteps approaching from the hall. Showtime.

“You’re playing games with yourself in the dark of the moon,” Hannibal said. Clink of the wine glasses being laid on the piano.

Will turned and faced Hannibal, trying to face him with the same carefully blank expression he’d had the first night, but he found this more difficult than intended. This was Hannibal. His Hannibal. He couldn’t help but feel a slight smile form on his face.

“Wasn’t surprising that I heard from the Great Red Dragon. Was it surprising when you heard from him?”

“Yes and no.”

Holding the prolonged eye contact wasn’t difficult. Will didn’t mind this part.

“Do you intend to watch him kill me?” Hannibal asked. Will barely managed to control his flinch. Thankfully Hannibal was focused on the wine glasses and not on his face.

Will wanted to say no. _No, of course not. Not now that I realize what I have. What we have. Why would I let him take that from me? Why would I even consider it?_

He took a deep breath. “I intend to watch him change you.”

Hannibal was amused by his response, but that didn’t make it hurt Will any less. “My compassion is inconvenient for you, Will.”

Will was really cursing his past self right now. But he had to say it. Hannibal was already looking curious at his hesitation.

“If you’re partial to beef products…” Will cringed inwardly. “It’s inconvenient to be compassionate towards a cow.”

Will still managed to deliver it well enough to get a chuckle out of Hannibal. He pulled the cork out of the wine and handed Will a glass.

“Save yourself, kill them all?”

“I don’t think I can save myself.” Will was relieved that he didn’t need to act anymore. “Maybe that’s just fine.” The eye contact that followed was just as charged as it had been the first night. Maybe more so. Will felt that now-familiar pull in his stomach.

“‘No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend.’”

Will swallowed. Braced himself. “He’s watching us now.” He clenched the wine glass so as not to reach prematurely for his gun. Planted his feet firmly on the ground. This was going to be the hardest part.

“I know.” 

Will felt as though his heart was shattering alongside the window as the bullet ripped through Hannibal’s stomach. Fuck. He really wanted to kill Francis.

But not yet. He pretended to be indifferent to Hannibal’s suffering as he lay on the floor, clutching his stomach, but he felt his face twitch in anger. Will finally tore his eyes from Hannibal and faced Francis’ outstretched gun.

“Don’t run. I’ll catch you,” Francis said. Will made sure he didn’t intend on shooting him before returning his focus to Hannibal. Every bone in his body was trying to propel him forward, move him into action. Check on Hannibal. Kill Francis. But he restrained himself.

“Watching the film will be wonderful,” Francis was saying. Will noticed Hannibal looking at his clenched left fist and relaxed his hand with great effort. He slowly transferred the wine glass into his left hand. “But not as wonderful as the act itself.”

That was the final straw for Will. He reached back for his gun and was so blinded by rage that he had momentarily forgotten about the knife coming to lodge in his cheek. He didn’t need to fake his surprised reaction.

The Dragon was going to die. For the last time.

Will choked on his blood as the Dragon lifted him into the air and flung him out the window, onto the patio. He was made of pain and rage.

Fueled by his hatred of Francis and desperation to get out of these loops and his love for Hannibal, he pulled the knife out of his cheek and stabbed it through Francis’ leg. Will tried to crawl away as he remembered what was to come next, but he still couldn’t escape the knife being thrust into his shoulder. He grunted in pain and was just wondering when Hannibal would show up to help when he heard a groan as Francis stumbled backwards, Hannibal on top of him. 

He heard Hannibal get thrown to the ground and forced himself to look through his red haze and locate Francis before he could get to him again. Will charged at Francis and started stabbing anywhere he could reach. He hated this man. He hated that he had continually gotten between him and Hannibal.

Francis kicked him and he stumbled backwards, but nothing could stop him from finishing what he’d started. He looked up and met Hannibal’s eyes. Will smiled. This was what he had been sorely missing the past few days. This primal purity. This moment where love and violence were one and the same.

Hannibal leapt at Francis and bared him for Will. Will rushed forward and dragged his knife across Francis’ stomach. He couldn’t remember if this had all happened the first night, but he didn’t really care anymore. He was no longer concerned about perfectly reconstructing that night. He was no longer living in the past. He was living in the present. Here, with Hannibal.

Hannibal ripped at Francis’ throat with his teeth, and Will felt a savage delight course through his veins. He pulled himself to his feet with the help of a nearby bench and watched gleefully as Francis bled out on the patio. _Finally. The Dragon is dead._

He stumbled towards Hannibal, reaching for him with arms outstretched. Hannibal welcomed him easily. He belonged here, in his arms.

“See? This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us,” Hannibal said. They were both panting heavily. Will was starting to become conscious of the throbbing pain in his shoulder and cheek, but he shoved that aside.

He looked at Hannibal, dripping in blood. Looking at Will as if he was a miracle.

“It’s beautiful,” Will said. And when Hannibal’s gaze fell to his lips, he rushed up to meet his. 

It was a sloppy kiss. They were both exhausted and in pain and covered in blood. But they had both wanted this for so long--Will had wanted this for _so_ long, he realized--that none of that mattered. In that moment, it was just the two of them and their long pent-up desire and their purest selves and their lips.

It was beautiful.

Will pulled back from Hannibal to catch his breath. He was surprised to see clear tracks through the blood on Hannibal’s face. He was crying.

Will raised a trembling hand to his face and tried to swipe away the tears. This just resulted in smearing more blood on Hannibal’s face, but neither of them cared. Will’s arm fell to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder, and he pulled himself forward so that his face lay on his other shoulder.

They stood like that for seconds or minutes or years until Will finally extricated himself, reluctantly, from Hannibal’s arms. Hannibal’s knees were starting to tremble. Will had become all too conscious of the fact that Hannibal had been shot through the stomach and most likely suffered trauma to the head from being thrown onto the ground.

“C’mon. Let’s get you inside,” Will murmured, looping an arm around Hannibal’s back. The two of them shuffled back through the window frame at a slow, limping pace. Will gently maneuvered Hannibal onto the couch and went to the bathroom to retrieve some supplies. He had discovered a first aid kit on one of his many expeditions around the house under the cupboard in the bathroom. 

When he came back to Hannibal and started to put pressure on the gaping hole in his side, Hannibal grunted.

“Take care of yourself, Will,” he mumbled. “I can manage.”

“I’m not the one that got shot,” Will countered. He shook his head and continued to press on the wound. 

“This is gonna need to come off,” Will said, indicating Hannibal’s shirt. He helped pull the sweater over his head (a process made much harder by the copious amounts of blood imbued in it) and refocused on the wound. The blood flow had slowed to a trickle, but Will held down on it with the washcloth nonetheless. He had just gotten Hannibal all to himself. He wasn’t going to lose him now.

Will rinsed the wound with soap and water and bandaged it the best he could. Once Hannibal had repeatedly assured him that he would be fine, Will stumbled towards the bathroom and stripped off his filthy clothes, then set to work on cleaning his own various cuts and scrapes in the shower. He hissed in pain as he tried to clean the gash on his cheek. That was going to take a while to heal.

The prospect of needing time to heal was actually thrilling rather than daunting. After so many days of dying immediately following injury, he would almost be looking forward to taking time to heal slowly, rather than just waking up perfectly fine each morning. Will smiled, which quickly turned into a grimace as his cheek screamed in agony.

After he got out of the shower, Will hastily changed into one of the more casual outfits Hannibal had for him in his room. He hurried back towards the kitchen and found Hannibal struggling to keep his eyes open.

“How are you doing?” Will asked, bending down and peering at the bandage. The injury hadn’t bled through the wrapping, which was good.

“I couldn’t ask for anything more,” Hannibal replied. He was looking at Will with wonder.

Will smiled at him and shuffled back to the kitchen to retrieve a bowl from a cupboard. He filled it with water and brought it back to the couch. He kneeled by Hannibal’s side and dipped the washcloth in it before starting to gently scrub at the blood on Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal’s eyes didn’t leave his face the whole time he worked at the blood.

“If I’m being perfectly honest, Will, this was not how I believed that the events of tonight would transpire. How I hoped, perhaps. But you continue to surprise me. Just when I think I know you, you challenge my perception of you once more.”

Will smiled at him. “I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to do, either. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized. This is what I want. I want you, Hannibal.”

Hannibal closed his eyes as if savoring the taste of Will’s words. As Will finished scrubbing the blood off of his left hand, Hannibal wrapped his fingers around Will’s. Will couldn’t remember the last time that someone’s gentle touch had caused his heart to beat at such a rapid pace.

He got up to dump the bloody contents of the bowl into the sink and happened to glance at the clock over the stove.

It was 12:01.

A wave of relief washed over him. He was free. At last. He clutched the kitchen counter and dipped his head, too overcome with emotion to think of anything to say or do.

“Will? Is everything alright?” Hannibal asked.

He made his way back over to the couch where Hannibal lay and took his hand.

“It’s all I ever wanted.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to everyone who read this! it ended up being a little more plot-heavy than intended, so i hope that didn't bother you! hannibal and will are not easy to write, so i hope i did them justice :)


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